


Ti amo, amore mio

by Kyra_Bane



Series: 30 Day OTP Challenge [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, M/M, Multilingual Character, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, if there are any inaccuracies in translation, just tell me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26113009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra_Bane/pseuds/Kyra_Bane
Summary: Joe is a man of words. Nicky is a man of actions.Except when they're not.Or: four times Joe told Nicky he loved him and one time Nicky got there first.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: 30 Day OTP Challenge [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894534
Comments: 59
Kudos: 377





	Ti amo, amore mio

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to shout at me in the comments if any of these translations are wrong; I know some languages (but not these!!! for some reason!!!) so have relied on google and a couple of apps. All translations provided in the end notes.

Back when he was Yusuf, long before his first death, Joe had always had a head for languages. Words spilled from his tongue though he did his best never to waste them. Discussions were coloured with passion, sentiments sweet with honey. He'd always been one more for words than actions.

Then the foreign invasion came and action was the only thing that mattered any more.

Then, death. Life. Nicky.

Now, even Joe isn't sure how many languages he knows. He could catalogue them, of course, but there are so many where he's the only speaker – or he and Nicky – and it's another kind of heartbreak, knowing that.

Still, he learns more. He doesn't think it matters whether he has a head for it or not, now. A thousand years and anyone could learn to do this; anyone _would._

(Nicky disagrees but Joe knows there's no reason Nicky's accent should be as strong as it is. He's heard him barter in Marrakesh with just the right turn of phrase, the right timbre of home in his voice to get whatever he wants. He's heard him drawn into lazy philosophical debate in St Petersburg and had another man convinced Nicky was from the next town over. No. Nicky's accent is the way it is because he misses home sometimes and, notably, because he knows _Joe_ likes it.)

Nowadays, it's easier. Everything is online, accessible. Plus, Joe has a system. A list of things to learn, their importance varying depending on why he's learning, how. But there are some that stay the same.

He always learns a greeting first. It goes a long way and it takes a few seconds, really.

No point learning how to say 'I'm called' or 'My name is' at the beginning. He can point at himself well enough, say his name clearly. It's how he and Nicky communicated at first, after all.

Then there's usually a mish-mash of things – are they travelling somewhere to learn something for a mission? Is time short? Is it a vacation?

But, importantly, one thing remains: he always learns how to say 'I love you' and he always learns something new to call Nicky.

***

Joe learnt French long before they met Booker, so he'd whispered mon amour against Nicky's throat before, had called him mon chéri before licking along his collarbone. In a rare moment of levity, Booker teaches him a new one: mon chou.

He climbs into bed behind Nicky that night, Booker snoring in another room, Andy pacing somewhere out in the darkness. Nicky grumbles about Joe's cold feet and Joe snickers, hand snaking under Nicky's t-shirt to rest on his stomach.

"Je t'aime, mon chou," he murmurs and, when Nicky promptly starts laughing, he sits up.

"Mon chou?" Nicky asks, eyes glittering as he rolls onto his back.

"Booker said–" Joe glares at the wall. "If he lied..."

But Nicky's hands are soft and urgent, tugging Joe back down to lie beside him. "He's not lying, mon amour," he replies. "But _my cabbage_ is perhaps not the most romantic thing to hear just before you fall asleep."

Joe definitely does not pout for the rest of the night.

(Later, much later, when Nile's with them and they're associating with fresh-faced students by proxy, one of them explains to Joe that chou refers to the pastry, not the vegetable. It's Joe's favourite word for Nicky for the next month.)

***

They fight less, as time goes by, but that does not mean they do not fight at all. Joe thinks it adds another level of intensity when they do fight – when, somehow, despite nearly a millennium behind them, they find themselves at odds with one another.

Once this argument is over, Nicky storming out into a cold Omsk morning, Joe leans back against the counter and sighs. He can barely remember how it began. Nothing too important, nothing that cannot be fixed. He straightens up their breakfast things, taps his fingers against the table and, after an hour, he follows.

It doesn't take him long to find Nicky. There's a little park maybe ten minutes away from the apartment they're renting, a bench they both frequent in the early evening, waiting as the sun goes down. Nicky's sitting on it now but, to Joe's surprise, he's not alone.

There's a cat on his knee, a skinny little kitten, bumping its nose against Nicky's hand even as he scratches its ears with the other. Nicky's smiling that tiny quirk of his lips that still makes Joe's stomach flip over.

He sits quietly beside them, Nicky and the cat, and the cat gives him a long, assessing look before turning its attention back to Nicky. Nicky keeps his hands on the animal but tilts his head to the side as he looks at Joe.

Joe has a sudden flash of memory, of a shouted endearment on a Moscow street, and offers Nicky a smile. There's a beat before Nicky returns it. Pale eyes drop back down to the cat and Joe settles back against the bench, their shoulders pressed together.

"Ya tebya lyublyu, kotyonok."

Nicky huffs out a laugh, but he leans over to press their lips together anyway.

***

Something seems to have gotten into Nicky in Turkey. It's hot, but not as hot as Cairo was, or Kebili, or even Death Valley.

(They'd been there once, since they were already in California. It was fine, Joe had thought, but he'd also been excited to be reunited with air conditioning again.)

It's not like it's the first time they've been to Turkey, either. They were there when it was the seat of the Ottoman Empire, had visited many times over the years.

This time, they're in Antalya, it's summer, and Nicky _cannot_ keep his hands to himself.

Not that Joe much cares.

Nicky tumbles him onto the bed and they're already naked, have been for the better part of two days, and Joe gasps out, "Aşkım," as Nicky sucks a mark into his skin. His arms are pinned above his head, Nicky's tongue in his mouth and Joe says, "Nefesim," into the space between their lips when they part.

Nicky kisses a path down Joe's body and when Nicky takes him into his mouth, Joe throws back his head to inhale a deep, shuddering breath. His thighs are tense and pleasure curls up his spine as Nicky moves. He looks down. Nicky is looking up at him, pale eyes so open and expressive and Joe caresses the side of his face, heart full to bursting when Nicky leans into the touch. "Gözlerim," he murmurs and Nicky reaches up, closing his eyes briefly only when Joe takes his hand.

Then Nicky is inside him, so strong, so perfectly able to take Joe apart and Joe pants against his skin, leaves teeth marks wherever he can reach. Nicky's fingers tighten in his hair, pull his head back and Joe can't see anything _but_ Nicky, can't feel or hear or sense anything but the two of them, so closely entwined – heart, body, soul – that they might just be one.

"Seni seviyorum," Joe says as Nicky finds his release. Nicky peppers his face with kisses, reaches a hand between them, and Joe shouts, "Canım," as he does, too.

***

Quynh had been the one to teach Joe Vietnamese and she's the reason he doesn't use it anymore, either – not unless he has to.

He'd spent weeks trying to convince her to give him things to call Nicky, things that were sweet and would make Nicky melt for him and eventually, she'd given in. Although Joe can get by in Vietnamese still, he's pushed those words away, the words she'd carefully gifted him with a smile, the words he's sure echo over and over in Andy's mind.

Maybe it's Nile's arrival. Maybe it's Merrick, after Merrick, the bone-deep fear of being separated from Nicky in that lab. Maybe it's everything that's happening with Andy. With Booker.

They're in the kitchen of a little safe house in Sweden, far away from any neighbours but with a view of the forest that is just glorious. Andy has taken Nile out to train in cold weather because even though she argues that she was a marine, they all know she has no idea what she's really in for.

Nicky is sitting on the soft couch, curled into one corner, some old paperback in his hands. The look on his face is one of deep concentration, even as he absentmindedly tugs at his own hair. Joe stands over by the fridge, waiting for the water for their tea to boil, and falls in love with him all over again.

"Mình ơi," he says and Nicky looks up sharply. Joe's face heats – he hasn't said those words in five hundred years, at least, and yet he knows he couldn't choose any better. "Anh yêu em," he adds, just in case Nicky's forgotten.

Nicky says it back. He always does.

***

It is surprising – to Nile, to Booker, to Qunyh, to Andy and even, on very rare occasions, Joe – that Nicky was the one who said it first.

Joe is only ever surprised because Nicky is certainly a man of action. His beloved had known him so well, even then; he had known Joe needed the words.

They're in Greece, around fifty years after the first crusade. They've been travelling together the whole time and, since the wanting-to-kill-each-other fizzled out fairly quickly, have been companionable the vast majority of the time.

Joe has been in love with Nicky for forty-eight years.

He hasn't said it because, well, what can he say? What can he say that won't make this man turn away from him? What can he say to make this man _understand_ ; Allah knows, Nicky has come a long way in his views, but this?

Joe accepts himself, fully and completely – he cannot be anyone but himself, so why try? But if Nicky does not, it might be the thing that breaks him.

Sometimes, he thinks he sees Nicky blush when Joe looks at him for too long, or when their fingers touch, or when someone – somewhere – makes a lewd comment and their eyes meet.

Joe accepts, too, that this is probably all just his imagination, that he's wishing for something he yearns for.

He dreams of two women who fight fiercely, together, and lie peacefully, together, and sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night, looks at Nicky sleeping across from him and thinks his heart might just break.

And yet, in fifty years, no one seems to have turned Nicky's head. Joe wonders if that is just the way he is, that Nicky will have no one, and if that is his choice, his heart, then Joe can be happy for him. Joe is happy to stay by his side.

As is usual, for them, sometime during this fiftieth year, they find themselves on the business ends of the swords of some very bad men.

Well, Joe assumes. Later, when recalling this story, he doesn't really remember who the men were, what they wanted. Everything pales in comparison to the memory of what happened next.

After Joe was run through.

He wakes to Nicky saying his name. _Everywhere_ hurts and Joe finds relief through the pain because pain means he's alive. Hurts to open his eyes, though.

"Yusuf," Nicky says, and no one has ever said Joe's name so sweetly. "Nhebek aktar ma tetsawar, Yusuf, wake up."

It's enough to startle a gasp out of him, and Nicky looks panicked when Joe's eyes settle on his face. He doesn't let go, though Joe can feel the way Nicky trembles against him. He doesn't drop his gaze. Joe can barely breathe, in the face of that.

He does the only thing he can do. Tugs Nicky down so that their mouths meet and when they do, when Nicky cups his face so gently and lets a shaky breath out against his lips and Joe sees that his eyes are damp, Joe knows that's it for him. For them.

"Nhebek, Nicolò," he says, clinging to him. "Nhebek."

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I did RESEARCH for this but obvs since I don't speak any of these languages, there will almost certainly be errors. Especially with the last one as Tunisian Arabic is kind of tricky to find a whole list of loving endearments from. So! Corrections are welcome ofc and if you don't know the languages, use these at your own risk. 
> 
> **French**  
>  Mon amour - my love  
> Mon chéri - my dear  
> Je t'aime, mon chou - I love you, my cabbage (ETA: Thank you very much to **Dot** , who kindly corrected my misconception and pointed out that chou means cream puff rather than cabbage here - inspiring Joe's later discovery in the fic! 💕)
> 
> **Russian**  
>  Ya tebya lyublyu, kotyonok - I love you, kitten
> 
> **Turkish**  
>  Aşkım - my love  
> Nefesim - my breath  
> Gözlerim - my eyes  
> Seni seviyorum - I love you  
> Canım - my soul
> 
> **Vietnamese**  
>  Mình ơi - literally, myself - meaning a 'life partner who you see as a part of yourself and you two are kind of blurred together' 😭  
> Anh yêu em - I love you  
> ETA: Big thanks to **yuki_nhung_99** who corrected, uh, ALL the Vietnamese I'd put in 😅, making the whole thing a lot better in the process.
> 
> **Arabic (Tunisian)**  
>  Nhebek aktar ma tetsawar - I love you more than you can imagine  
> Nhebek - I love you
> 
> 30 Day OTP Challenge prompt: 2. Pet names


End file.
